Change of Plans REWRITE
by Tyrammafar
Summary: What if, in the beginning, Brom had tripped on his way to find Eragon in Carvahall? What if, for whatever reason, he was just a bit late... and the Ra'zac had reached the young rider first? When things don't go quite as expected, plans have to change...


**NOTE: It's been a hell of a long time, hasn't it? To start, thanks for not murdering me for never posting in... what, three years? Yeah, about that amount of time. It's been so long since I've written anything that I've forgotten a lot about what it's like to be posting things on this site. **

**In any case, here is something for you to enjoy; I liked the idea behind this story for a while, but decided that it needed rewriting and drastic changing... so here you go. YES, I KNOW; you want me to finish other stories first. Well hold on, damnit! I wanted to write this one first and get it rebooted. THEN perhaps I'll work on some others? I'm in college now, and also working, so my schedule doesn't allow for posting so often anymore.**

**I hope you enjoy this reworking on a previous story attempt, and I hope you enjoy the way my writing has matured over the years I've been away.**

**-Tyro **

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><p><em>He prowled across Carvahall, avoiding everyone until he heard a sibilant voice from around a house. Although his ears were keen, he had to strain to hear what was being said.<em>

_"When did this happen?" The words were smooth, like oiled glass, and seemed to worm their way through the air. Underlying the speech was a strange hiss that made his scalp prickle._

_"About three months ago," someone else answered. Eragon identified him as Sloan._

Shade's blood, he's telling them..._He resolved to punch Sloan the next time they met. A third person spoke. The voice was deep and moist. It conjured up images of creeping decay, mold, and other things best left untouched._

_"Are you sure? We would hate to think you had made a mistake. If that were so, it would be most... unpleasant." Eragon could imagine only too well what they might do. Would anyone but the Empire dare threaten people like that? Probably not, but whoever sent the egg might be powerful enough to use force with impunity._

_"Yeah, I'm sure. He had it then. I'm not lying. Plenty of people know about it. Go ask them." Sloan sounded shaken. He said something else that Eragon did not catch._

_"They have been... rather uncooperative." The words were derisive. There was a pause. "Your information has been helpful. We will not forget you." Eragon believed him. Sloan muttered something, and then Eragon heard someone hurrying away. He peered around the corner to see what was happening. Two tall men stood in the street. Both were dressed in long black cloaks that were lifted by sheaths poking past their legs. On their shirts were insignias intricately wrought with silver thread. Hoods shaded their faces, and their hands were covered by gloves. Their backs were oddly humped, as though their clothes were stuffed with padding. Eragon shifted slightly to get a better view. One of the strangers stiffened and grunted peculiarly to his companion. They both swiveled around and sank into crouches._

_Eragon's breath caught. Mortal fear clenched him. His eyes locked onto their hidden faces, and a stifling power fell over his mind, keeping him in place. He struggled against it and screamed to himself, _Move!_ His legs swayed, but to no avail. The strangers stalked toward him with a smooth, noiseless gait. He knew they could see his face now. They were almost to the corner, hands grasping at swords._

Suddenly, one of the two was upon him! The shrill sound of a steel sword being drawn from a scabbard was only slightly muffled by the man's long coat, the dark-bladed weapon glinting in the light as it swung round to point at Eragon's throat, the man's other gloved hand grasping his shoulder solidly and shoving it against the wall behind him. Eragon could smell the rank breath, feel the heat from the man's form, and hear the hollow sounds of breathing.

"Spying, are you?" hissed the man from the depths of his hood in the form of rhetorical question; he clearly didn't expect an answer nor did he need one. Eragon could feel the very tip of the ice-cold blade at the skin of his throat, his hairs standing on end so far they may as well have leapt from his skin. "Curious to know what has transpired here, perhaps?"

The other of the two men stood nearby with one gloved hand on the hilt of his own sword, stooped in his own odd posture and making no attempt to help or hinder. "Your name is Eragon, issss it not?" asked this man, his words somewhat harder to understand through the harsh hiss that crept up in his voice at the question. The man holding Eragon pinned turned and glanced towards his fellow, and Eragon was tempted greatly to shove away and flee, but the light biting of the metal at his throat made him consider otherwise very, very quickly.

They shared no words in their glances, though the one holding Eragon hostage turned back with a slightly new tone to his voice, which still made Eragon shiver; it was eagerness. "Is this so? You match the butcher's description quite readily. If you do not mind... I think you will come with us to answer some questions." This was no suggestion, but an order.

"Eragon!" shouted a voice.

The two strangers stiffened visibly, both turning towards the sound of the voice. It took a moment for Eragon to recognize the sound of the voice as that of Brom the storyteller. The two men exchanged glances, quickly-muttered words, and then a few nods, and finally the last things that Eragon was aware of was the gloved fist of the stranger holding him connecting very solidly with his temple.

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><p>The next moment of consciousness for Eragon was not pleasant, to say the least; his head throbbed painfully, each pulse of pressure threatening to make him black out yet again, and several times he thought that he had, his eyes still closed and his body numb. He could tell that he was breathing, and that he could feel pain, which both told him that he was very likely still alive.<p>

As he lay where he was, unsure still as to his current state, his mind cast out in search of Saphira; she was nowhere to be found in the range of his thought. It could be a terrible sign, or it could mean that she was indeed nowhere near and was likely not also captured...

Captured!

Eragon struggled suddenly and violently, throwing out his limbs in a immediate attempt at escaping invisible grasping hands and bonds, but found when he opened his eyes that nothing of the sort was beset on him. His wrists were not tied, his legs were not bound. He was not even gagged or blindfolded. For several long moments of receding terror he wondered if the time before this had been a dream, if he had fallen and struck his head or if he had simply slept in with a horrible nightmare.

These thoughts drifted away as he recognized the area around him as being unfamiliar to him; he was laying on a wooden floor, sanded smooth and sealed with wax as though to prevent it from being soaked, and around him in the dim light were the shapes of various strange bundles wrapped in cloth, and of wooden walls that were close together. A slight lean to the floor made his stomach a bit unsettled, as though the world itself were leaning, but he soon realized that it was simply just the floor.

He thought for a moment to speak out, and call for someone, but remained with lips closed as he saw the vague outline of something; the shape of a figure slumped slightly against the wall just behind him, in the corner of his eye. Eragon turned very slowly to get a better look.

There was the tall stranger from before, sitting on a very short bench set and mounted against the wall, leaning over rather limply and with his short sword resting sheathed in his lap, the cords that had held it bound to his belt laying out across the tilted floor and nearly touching Eragon's hand.

The stranger, for all his limpness, was not asleep; out of the darkness of his hood, glittering eyes watched Eragon's movements. "... you awaken," said the stranger in a soft hiss, barely above a whisper.

Eragon sat still on his side, facing the stranger with fingers twitching, debating if he should try and flee or try and fight. The man's sword wasn't drawn or even in his hands, just laying there in his lap. Perhaps, even, Eragon could reach out and wrench it away before the man could draw it. All of these things flashed in an instant through his head, but instead he licked his dry and cracked lips, blinking in the darkness.

"Wh-..." he started, his voice creaking. He cleared his throat. "What do you want? Who are you?"

"Curious as before, I see," said the stranger. "My apologies for having to... stoop to manhandling you away... but we could not risk endangering our mission. Do you need a drink of water?"

It struck Eragon as very odd that the stranger would be so very polite to his own captive; he was being held against his will and certainly after having been knocked out, but yet this hooded stranger was offering him things and being very calm. It threw Eragon's still-waking mind into a loop, and in the silence he could smell the rank odor of the stranger in the small room; the smell made his gut clench, and he wanted to flee yet again. The smell drew feelings of terror out of the dark corners of his mind.

"You are afraid," said the stranger; it didn't need much investigation to tell that Eragon was terrified. "... you have reason to be. But... we have no reason to harm you now. We have accomplished our objective, and this makes things much happier for us all. You included, Eragon."

_He__ knows __my __name__? _thought Eragon. _Well__, __Sloan __probably __told__ them__, __and __they__ matched__ up __the __clues __based __on __his__ description__. __But__... __what__ objective__ do__ they__ mean__? _

Eragon voiced as much.

"Our objective?" hissed the man quietly; he seemed reluctant to share it, but eventually nodded. "It does not matter now. Telling you will help you none. Just understand... I mean no harm to you at this time. Should you try and flee, this could change," he dragged out this statement to make his point. "My... partner... is not here. She would say things most unhelpful were she sitting with us. She is not the best at this... this thing you call negotiating. I, however, rather like it."

_So__ the__ shorter__ one__ is__ a__ she__? __I__ couldn__'__t__ tell__ by __voice__ alone__, _thought Eragon as he scooted up onto his backside to sit properly; he was sore all over and his head still ached... but he had little else to do at this point but listen. "Who are you? he asked again. "Why did you kidnap me?"

"Kidnap? I wouldn't call it that. You might, I wouldn't," the man trailed off with a soft hiss, paused, and then continued. "I am an agent of His Majesty. I am here under his personal orders, along with my companion... we seek something that belongs to him. We have found it, though... in the wrong condition." He seemed a bit worried with this remark. "Things are not quite going as planned. You know of what I speak... the object the butcher said you found? This is.. was.. the King's personal property. But as you well know... things have changed now."

The stranger raised a gloved hand and pointed down at Eragon. More specifically, Eragon realized as he followed the direction and looked down at his hand, at the silvery mark plain as moonlight on his palm.

"Perhaps," continued the hooded man. "...this is a change of plans for the better. Perhaps."


End file.
